<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Shut Up and Drive by schmulte</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034954">Shut Up and Drive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmulte/pseuds/schmulte'>schmulte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red White &amp; Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I'm Sorry, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, this is a cars au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:42:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,034</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034954</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmulte/pseuds/schmulte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex Claremont-Diaz is the most promising rookie driver in the game. He's on his way to winning his first Piston Cup, but when he ends up trapped in a small town, he learns to stop living life in the fast lane, and how to stop and smell the roses. Yes, this is a  human cars au. No, I'm not sorry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Am Speed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedingballroomfloor/gifts">bleedingballroomfloor</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I blame everyone from the Gray Area server who encouraged this idea. This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever written.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
  <em>
    <span>One winner. Forty two losers. I eat losers for breakfast. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex looks out at the track laid before him, foot resting on the gas pedal. The driver next to him revs his engine. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breakfast? Wait, maybe I should have had breakfast? A little brekky could be good for me. No, no, stay focused. Speed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>June's voice rings in his ear. "You ready, rockstar?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex rolls his shoulders, flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. The leather of his gloves is stiff, popping with each movement. "Born ready, Junebug."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t get cocky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex snorts. He’s been cocky since the day he was born- he’s far past reigning it in. He twists his neck from side to side, shivering at the satisfying </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop</span>
  </em>
  <span> of his bones. He trained too hard yesterday, he knows it, and he’ll get yelled at by his chiropractor. But only after he wins the race. He can hear the commentators through his headset, voices muffled by his helmet and the noise of the crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And of course we have our golden boy, Alex Claremont-Diaz, lining up for the race. All he needs is to win this race and then he’ll be lined up for his first Piston Cup as a rookie.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t listen to them, Alex,” June says in his ear, blocking out their voices. “Stay focused.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m focused, June, I’m focused.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches for the start; the noise of the impending race fills him up, warms his bones. The roar of the crowd, the crackle of his headset, the smell of gasoline and the low growl of the engines. He can see the race in his head, what he did wrong last time, the curve of his tires on the track, the way the car will vibrate beneath him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a horn and the flash of a flag, and his foot presses on the gasp instinctively. The other cars speed by as blurs of color with faceless drivers. Pure adrenaline boils in Alex’s blood as he picks up speed. He runs on pure muscle memory, each twist of the wheel carefully calculated by his body- he dodges to avoid a swipe by another car, slows down a little so he can pull up and pass. Suddenly he’s in the front of the line, passing the first lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Piston Cup is so close he can taste it. He speeds past his pit crew, and smiles at the uproar from the crowd. June is yelling in his ear, calling him names, but he just laughs and watches the other cars grow smaller and smaller in the distance. He’ll get an earful later, but it’ll be worth it when he wins. He can hear Richards’ voice in his ear from last night, low and threatening in a way that makes his stomach drop. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lose this race, and your career is done.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a familiar threat, but not an empty one. Everything rests on this race. His reputation, his career, his life. There’s no time for pit stops. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> to win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes down the feeling in his stomach and presses the pedal until it’s all the way down. The wheel fights him, but he keeps a steady grip, taking the turns with determined ease. Two laps down, 198 to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the last lap, there’s sweat across his brow and blood in his mouth. His bottom lip is bitten raw beneath his helmet and his fingers have long since gone numb. He’s gaining speed, passing into third place, then second. He can’t help but pictures Richards, the cruel smile on his face as he rips Alex’s contract right in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. No, focus. Don’t think about him right now, think about this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The driver in first is good, but he’s not as good as Alex. He takes his turns too tight and he hesitates with each curve. Alex smiles with bloody teeth and he passes him right as he crosses the finish line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t help it. He leans his head out the window and gives an old fashioned, Texas hollar. The crowd is on its feet and June is shouting in his ear, and he can hear the announcers saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that’s Claremont-Diaz in first! He’s going to the Piston Cup!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He does his victory lap with his helmet under his arm, laughing and waving to the crowd. There’s people with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Claremont-Diaz</span>
  </em>
  <span> posters waving around wildly, kids up on their parent’s shoulders with flags in their little hands. The rush is euphoric, and the smile hurts his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing he does is hug June. He’s sweaty and the cameras are flashing but his sister’s arms around him are grounding as he spins her around. Then she’s pushing him towards the cameras and he’s smiling and giving generic answers and pushing sweaty curls away from his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s exhausted and bone-tired by the end of the night, and he regrets insisting on driving himself to Los Angeles in his old Camaro. It’s his baby, the first car he bought on his own with his first ever paycheck, meticulously maintained with love and care, not a scratch on it. It’s his first love, but tonight driving it is a chore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, he realizes he’s drifted away from the highway, chugging along middle-of-nowhere route sixty six. It’s only a ten-minute detour, but it’s ten minutes Alex doesn’t want to waste. He’s vibrating with excitement- the win, the Piston Cup looming so closely. His phone ringing jolts him out of his thoughts, and he hastily fiddles with it to turn it on speaker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Diaz,” Richards greets him. No hello, no congratulations. Not even his full name. “Care to explain why you aren’t in your trailer on your way to California right now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jerks the wheel hard when a crack in the road appears, taking in a sharp breath when he nearly runs himself into a ditch. “Felt like driving myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards growls from the other end, and Alex dodges another crack. “You get your ass back to that trailer. I’m not letting you fuck this up just because you wanted some alone time with your car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richards, you think we can talk about that thing in my contract? The--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The line goes dead. Alex pounds a fist on the wheel in frustration and throws his phone on the passenger’s seat, taking his eye off the road for half a millisecond. In that time- that half a millisecond, that small fraction- his Camaro hits another bump hard enough to send him drifting. He battles the wheel for control, but it’s no use. The camaro tears through the grass, spinning through a pile of tires and knocking down a sign. The last thing Alex hears is the sound of metal crunching on metal before the world goes dark.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Radiator Springs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Alex wakes up in a new town</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey y'all, sorry for the wait! this au is kind of a bitch to write. hope y'all enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Alex wakes up in a hospital bed. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but he’s sure that’s where he is- he can tell from the scratchy, thin blankets, the cold temperature of the room, the light weight of the knot tied in the hospital gown pressing against his back. He can’t remember how he got here, and his head aches- he must have given himself a concussion. Did he crash at the race yesterday?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes and immediately regrets it- the lights of the room are blinding, the pain so great he’s forced to close his eyes and squeeze them shut. He can hear shuffling from his bed, low, murmured voices, and the sound of the curtain closing. The yellowish light behind his eyelids faze, and he carefully allows one to open- the room is darker now that the curtains have closed, and he can look around without wincing. There’s a woman in scrubs next to him, scribbling something down on a clipboard while a machine beeps at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mornin’, sleeping beauty,” she says, voice pleasant, but far too loud for his concussed brain. “How’s the head feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex groans and lifts an unconscious hand to touch the bandage wrapped around his forehead. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty nasty concussion. Mind if I take some vitals?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex doesn’t have the capacity right now to argue, so he just sits up and allows the nurse- Nora, her name tag says- to poke and prod. He winces when she shines a flashlight in his eyes, but she doesn’t apologize, just hums and writes something down on her clipboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you remember?” she asks while taking his blood pressure. Alex squeezes his eyes shut momentarily and tries to replay the events of last night. He was driving, one the phone, maybe. California, that’s where he was going. The Piston Cup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was driving...hit a bump in the road, I think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, those roads can be pretty dangerous if you’re not used to ‘em. Course, we don’t get a lot of new folds ‘round here often.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where exactly is </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Radiator Springs,” she says with a smile, as if that makes any sense at all. “Cutest little town in Carburetor County.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay…” Alex shifts in his bed, over the mental fog now, just desperate to get behind the wheel and get where he needs to be. “Well, I need to be in California, like, yesterday, so if you could just get me some discharge papers, that would be great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nurse </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs</span>
  </em>
  <span> at him. Actually laughs. In his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you poor, sweet thing,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes. “Even if you weren’t concussed to all hell, you’re not going nowhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nora slips him a secretive smile. “I’ll let the sheriff explain that one.” She doesn’t even give him time to process that little tidbit of information before she’s rattling off questions to write down in her clipboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex blinks. “Seriously? You don’t know who I am?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I supposed to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-” Alex nearly swallows his own tongue in his shell-shocked state. “Alex Claremont-DIaz? Internationally recognized racecar driver? Nascar rookie of the year?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nora looks at him with an amused expression, pursing her lips to suppress a mocking smile. “Sorry, not ringin’ any bells. You have your insurance card?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The more Nora talks, the more frustrated Alex gets. For one, her accent is annoying as </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell, </span>
  </em>
  <span>especially when she won’t shut up about whatever the hell this place is. From what Alex can gather, he’s in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, USA, of route 66, and is not going to be getting to California today. Oh, and his cell-phone got crushed in the accident, apparently, and his car’s been impounded. So this is all turning out to be just lovely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All done,” Nora says finally, capping her pen. “Sheriff’ll be in soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Sheriff, is not, in fact, there soon. He takes his sweet time, and the longer he waits, the more fidgety Alex gets. Who does this guy think he is, withholding his release from the hospital? Sure, he probably did some decent property damage when he apparently crashed his car, but they can’t just mail him the fine when he gets to California?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After an eternity, a man in a Sheriff’s uniform pulled straight from one of the old western movies his dad likes to watch strides into the room. The badge on his right lapel spells Sheriff Luna, and the name and face are so frustratingly familiar, and yet Alex can’t place it. He’s gonna drive himself crazy trying to figure it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” Luna says, one eyebrow cocked as he places his hands on his belt. “You’re the one who went and wrecked my town, eh? Thought you’d be taller.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Five-nine is average,” Alex huffs. “Look, Sheriff, can you just give me a fine already so I can get out of here? I’ve got a Piston Cup to win.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Luna’s eyes narrow, thick brows furrow, hands tighten on his belt. Alex swallows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to kick your ass out of my town and get on with my life. But your car isn’t gonna be fixed for another couple of days, and the whole town is up in arms about you wrecking everything. So you’re gonna pay your penance, and then I’ll send you on your way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great! How much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sheriff grins wolfishly. “Oh, you’re not paying with money.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The minute he’s discharged from the hospital, Alex is dragged to the old, dilapidated police station by Sheriff Luna, where it seems everyone in Radiator Springs is waiting for him. Most of them...do not look happy, to put it lightly; it makes him feel suddenly grateful for his close proximity to the Sheriff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the road in front of them, there is the rustiest truck Alex has ever seen, hooked up to a massive paver. Luna slaps him on the back and holds up a set of keys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alex, meet Bessie. She’ll be your companion for the next few days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait-” Alex connects the dots and takes a step back. “You want me to repair your road? That can’t be legal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which one of us is the police officer here?” Alex keeps his mouth shut. “That’s what I thought. Now, Pez here is gonna help you out; he knows Bessie like the back of his hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man around Alex’s age comes bounding over, wide grin nearly splitting his face in two. Alex has to take a couple steps back to avoid almost crashing into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘S it true you’re a real race car driver?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex opens his mouth to respond, but Luna is faster. “Pez, don’t encourage him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Raf. It’s just, I’ve never met anyone famous before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still haven’t. Come on you two,</span>
  <em>
    <span> vamos</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We’re losing daylight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Begrudgingly, Alex snatches the keys and gets in the truck. If it weren’t hooked up to Bessie, he’d just steal it outright; as it stands, he’s stuck in the driver’s seat, sitting next to some smiling hillbilly idiot. At least the crowd is dispersing- he can hear Luna yelling at them to</span>
  <em>
    <span> get back to work, now, you’ve seen what you came here to see.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He spends several long, insufferable hours in the truck with Pez, and by the time they’re done for the day, they’ve barely made any progress. Alex is going to be stuck here for at least a week, Pez says, while his opponents are already in California, schmoozing potential sponsors, sponsors that should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>his. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The only silver lining in all this is that, however much he misses his phone, he’s glad he doesn’t have to speak to Richards right now. He can live in ignorance, pretending he doesn’t have a  manager who’s going to go absolutely ballistic on him when he finally gets to California. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another man is waiting when they pull back up in front of the police station- Alex recognizes his face vaguely from the crowd earlier. He’s handsome, he’ll give him that, and his eyes are beautiful, even when they’re glaring at him. He’s got strong arms folded over his chest, and Alex can practically feel the power those thighs are hiding beneath his jeans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Henry!” Pez shouts as soon as he’s out of the truck. “Whatcha doing out here so late?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even fancy race car drivers need somewhere to sleep,” the handsome man- Henry, apparently -says in the most ridiculously attractive accent Alex has ever heard. “I’ve got a spare room at the B&amp;B.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Alex says on instinct, southern manners kicking in on instinct. “That’s alright--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unless he’d like to spend the night in a jail cell?” Henry asks with a raised eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That settles that matter. Pez catches him off-guard with a hug goodbye, and without another word, Henry turns on his heel and starts walking. Alex has to sprint to catch up with those damn long legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do try to keep up,” Henry taunts him with a glance over his shoulder. “The coyotes come out at night, and I’d rather you not get eaten before you’ve fixed the road.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hot</span>
  <em>
    <span> and</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean. Alex is in trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me,” Alex shoots back, walking backwards just to show off. “How does a brit find himself in Radiator Springs of all places?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry frowns. “It’s a nice town. It may not be flashy like LA or New York or whatever city you’re from, but you’ve no right to judge it so harshly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alex takes a look around- at the deserted streets, the old, crumbling buildings, the flashing </span>
  <em>
    <span>vacancy </span>
  </em>
  <span>sign above the house they’re approaching. He swears he can see a tumbleweed blowing in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh,” is all he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Henry unlocks the front door of the house and lets him inside. It’s nice, and not at all what Alex was expecting. The interior is beautiful, original hardwood flooring and exposed brick, books stacked in piles on every surface. There’s a beagle taking a nap on a huge dog bed in the corner, and Alex is irrationally jealous of it. His room has the same feel, cozy and crammed full of books and knick-knacks, but it doesn’t feel crowded. There’s soft blankets on the bed and a real-life, honest to god fireplace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus,” Alex breathes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry, smug smirk on his face, hands Alex a key, letting their fingers brush momentarily. “Fifty dollars a night. You can pay me back once you get your car back from the shop. There’s a guest kitchen downstairs, and the fridge is already stocked. I go into work at eight and come back at three. If there’s an emergency here while I’m gone, call Pez.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Henry,” is all Alex manages to say. It’s been a pretty overwhelming day- sleeping under the same roof as a very hot, seemingly single English stranger is not helping the current situation. Plus, his head still hurts. Henry nods, and leaves the room, and Alex is alone for the first time in what feels like years. It’s kind of nice, actually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it doesn’t matter how nice it is, because by the end of the week, he’ll be at the Piston Cup, and far away from this place, and all of this will just be a funny story one day. It has to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>